


she's a goner

by Appleface



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, héloïse really said 'feelings??? no thank you' and booked it, héloïse's sister is alive in this one guys!!!, idk it's not as sappy as my last fic that's for sure, like i guess it's angst???, over years, the absolute epitome of useless lesbians, very messy i apologise in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Appleface/pseuds/Appleface
Summary: Nobody has ever known quite what to do with Héloïse.--Five times Marianne and Héloïse parted ways and one time they didn’t.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 167





	she's a goner

goner

_noun_  
_informal_

  1. a person or thing that is doomed or cannot be saved.



_one._

When Héloïse was eleven years old, she crawled into her sister’s bed in the middle of the night.

Her sister, Suzie, was only five years older. But at the time Héloïse found her to be the wisest, kindest person on earth. More so than their mother, who Héloïse had just held an hour-long screaming match with. Of course, she knows now that Suzie is not a marble statue or a wax figure. She has her flaws, everybody does. But that day Héloïse felt like the most flawed person in France.

Suzie said nothing to her of the argument, though there was no way she didn’t hear it. Inside, Suzie sighed softly. _“Ma choupinette,”_ she whispered, stroking her little sister’s hair. “What are we going to do with you?”

Nobody has ever known quite what to do with Héloïse. And now, at nearly eighteen, Héloïse hardly knows what to do with herself. Her maman tries to help, to her credit. That’s what the portrait course is supposed to be for.

At first, Héloïse thinks she’ll stomach it. Whatever. Three days, she can do that. She’s suffered through schooling nearly her entire life. But the first day is so unbearably boring and quiet that she doesn’t know how much more she can take. It’s mostly adults taking the course, save for one old man and a girl around Héloïse’s age. The building they’re in is massive with open space and dramatic staircases. And yet the course is held in one stuffy, windowless room.

The worst thing is that the teacher doesn’t want them to listen to music. “Why not?” Héloïse demands.

The man sighs. He’s maybe in his early thirties, wearing a turtleneck in the heat of June. “Music is distracting,” he claims. “You need the silence to focus. Listen to your thoughts and intuition.”

“I have no thoughts,” Héloïse deadpans, delivering the blankest stare she can muster. “There is absolutely nothing going on up here.”

The opposite is true, really. Héloïse is in danger of constant daydreaming and pondering unless she is listening to a podcast or a song. But that’s too personal for this man to know. And it’s worth it, both for the pinched expression he wears and for the light laugh that sounds across the room. When Héloïse looks, that girl her age has her head bent, hiding a smile. Héloïse is pleased.

This girl, Héloïse comes to learn, is probably not doing this course because she was forced to. The horror is that she might even be here by choice. She is constantly focused, always listening to the ramblings of the teacher. And she is good. Very good. At first, Héloïse only knows this because the teacher gushes over her work and asks her questions about art school and portfolio preparation. She seems to have an answer for everything. At the end of the second day, Héloïse walks all the way around to the bin on the other side of the room so she can throw away a tissue she was wiping her brush on. While there she takes a glance at the girl’s painting of the model who sits on a stool in the centre of the room. And, well. Okay. Fair enough. She’s good.

Héloïse listens closely for two days and doesn’t catch the talented girl’s name. Héloïse isn’t sure why she wants to know so badly. By six p.m. on the third day, they will separate and never see each other again.

For those first two days, Héloïse had left the building for the lunch break they were given, desperate to breathe and walk briskly. She would take the hour to read on a bench in the local park, eating a sandwich she had packed from home. But on the final day, something foreign compels her to stay.

To stay. What an odd thing for her to do. Héloïse never stays.

But she does. And so she and the talented girl are the only two left behind.

Héloïse sits awkwardly by her unfinished portrait. It has all the shapes of the model, but nothing fits together. Across the room, the other girl hasn’t seemed to notice that Héloïse is there. Héloïse watches as she stands and stretches, cracking her neck and twisting all her limbs around in the air.

“My god,” groans the girl, placing both hands on her hips. Some strands of dark hair are stuck to her forehead with sweat. “It’s so stuffy in here. Do you want to walk around?”

Héloïse doesn’t move, only to realise that the girl is looking right at her with eyes of muddled colour. “Are you talking to me?” Héloïse asks.

The girl stares. “You’re the only one in the room.”

This is true. “Sure,” Héloïse answers the initial question. She abandons her packed sandwich as the pair of them leave the room together.

\--

Her name is Marianne. Marianne. Héloïse has never known a Marianne, though it is a fairly common name. Héloïse is an old fashioned name, or at least that’s what Marianne says. Héloïse doesn’t know whether or not to be offended.

The building seems to be entirely empty save for the two of them, though Héloïse knows this mustn’t be true. They wind up long staircases, Héloïse moving ahead of Marianne once or twice. She turns once and finds Marianne looking at her.

“What?” she asks, irritated.

“Do you not like to be looked at?” asks Marianne, a little flustered.

“No. Certainly not by strangers.”

“Am I a stranger?”

Héloïse looks at her. “Of course,” she says, but the word stranger doesn’t seem to fit Marianne. Which is ridiculous. They only just exchanged names. They know nothing about each other.

And yet, Héloïse feels thrown by Marianne in several ways. Namely the way that Marianne responds to Héloïse’s inclination for saying odd things.

“You take all this very seriously, don’t you?” Héloïse asks when they find themselves on the top floor of the building.

Marianne turns away from the painting she was observing, one of a flooded river, that is placed proudly on the wall in a frame too fancy for its own good. She gathers Héloïse for a moment as she stands there. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

Responding to a question with a question. Before Héloïse can point this out, Marianne is speaking again.

“I am serious,” she confirms, still half-turned towards the wall. “I’m a serious artist.”

“Very convincing.”

Marianne squints. “Why are you being mean? Your parents signed you up for this, I suppose. Your dad wants you to be more cultured.”

“My dad’s dead,” Héloïse says before she can stop herself.

Marianne seems surprised for only half a second. “Oh. How did he die?”

Héloïse stares. “Illness took him.”

Marianne turns her full body towards Héloïse at last. Her expression is laced with amusement. “You call me serious, but you speak like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a writer.”

Héloïse huffs. “I _am_ a writer, I’ll have you know.”

Marianne’s lips twitch. “A serious one?”

Héloïse shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re teasing me when I just told you my dad died.”

Marianne’s eyes are soft and unburdened. “I’m sorry. But you’re smiling.”

Héloïse _is_ smiling. She hadn’t noticed.

Marianne sighs without opening her mouth; it sounds in the back of her throat, and if they weren’t high up in a silent building then Héloïse would not have heard it at all. She’s glad that she did, for reasons she can’t quite place. “Look,” says Marianne, “can we agree that we’re both pretentious?”

Héloïse considers this. “Pretentious is an overused word,” she concludes, looking past Marianne and out the window to a cloudless sky. “Passionate people are mislabelled pretentious all the time and they get their spirits crushed. It’s a dismissal.”

She doesn’t want to look back quite yet but listens to the surprises in Marianne’s tone. “So you weren’t calling me pretentious earlier?”

“No,” Héloïse states. “Just serious.”

She means to leave it there, but makes the mistake of glancing back at Marianne, who appears to be waiting on more. Héloïse thinks. “It was an observation,” she continues and then pauses. “Who would I be to call somebody _else_ pretentious? I’m a writer, remember?”

Marianne’s mouth flutters. Héloïse takes a moment to comprehend the smile, and when she does she is stricken and forgets to move her eyes until Marianne suggests they should return to the stuffy room. The course is about to resume.

Throughout the class, Héloïse can’t help but glance across at Marianne. To gauge her reaction. See what she thinks, if she’s focused or not. Sometimes just for the sake of looking at her. She has a delicate face paired with hard eyes. As the class progresses and wraps up, they catch each other’s gaze. Marianne purses her lips and ducks down, hiding behind her canvas.

Héloïse asks herself to do something about this.

But when the class ends, her sister calls. Héloïse brings the phone to her ear as she watches across the room where Marianne is cleaning up her paintbrushes.

“I’m out the front,” says Suzie. “Is it over?”

“Yeah,” says Héloïse. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

The back of Marianne’s neck is pale. She observes her portrait with great and admirable intensity.

Héloïse’s heart stirs.

It would only take a few seconds.

But her sister is waiting in the car. And there is an all too familiar tugging at the back of her head.

 _Save yourself,_ something tells Héloïse. She doesn’t wait long enough to ask herself: _From what?_

Héloïse turns and leaves the room without another word. All the way down the stairs and out the door, she is hoping to hear her name.

“Héloïse!” she imagines. Sung high and urgent from the marble throat of Marianne. Serious Marianne. “Héloïse!”

She makes it all the way out to the car and Marianne isn’t coming after her. Even as they pull away from the building, she watches intently from her rolled-down window. Listens.

“What is it?” asks Suzie when they’re far gone from the building.

Héloïse tears her eyes from the window. Suzie glances away from the road for a moment to deliver a steely, knowing stare. The wise older sister stare. Did Suzie always have that about her, or did she only gain it after Héloïse was born?

Héloïse caves to it. There’s nothing to be hidden anyway. “There was a girl,” she explains, her voice low. “I ran away from her.”

Suzie’s grip softens on the wheel. “You always do that,” she muses. “Do you want to go back?”

“No,” says Héloïse quickly. “She’s probably left already.”

It’s another excuse. She always has a million lined up.

Whatever. Héloïse will probably forget about Marianne by next week. Probably.

Suzie glances at her once more, and Héloïse turns away again, back to the window. She hears Suzie’s affectionate sigh.

 _“Ma choupinette,”_ she whispers. No more needs to be said.

_two._

Héloïse doesn’t know whose party this is, but she wants to leave.

Sophie was very convincing when she said it would be fun. Three hours ago the concept of drunk girls, yelling boys, and lots of horny people seemed much more appealing for some godforsaken reason. Maybe if she was drunk as well she’d be having the time of her life. But no. Somebody has to drive Sophie home.

Speaking of Sophie, where is she, exactly? Héloïse lost her somewhere in the drinking games and blaring music. God, this music is so loud. Who is it singing? She doesn’t know. Around Héloïse, young people move past in colours and slurred words.

Young people. Why does she think it like that when she _is_ a young person? She’s just like everybody else here. Early twenties, swamped with university work, trying to distract themselves by any means necessary. The only difference is that everybody here is successfully distracted. Héloïse can only think of the essay she left unfinished and that group project. God, she fucking _hates_ group projects.

No. Stop. She needs to cool down. Héloïse takes a breath, but the air is thick and warm. There’s a terrace, isn’t there? Héloïse starts to feel her way along the wall and pushes off into the crowd of moving bodies. She is a ghost among them, slipping through, only felt in a shivery touch or shadow. God, it’s fucking hot in here.

Breathe. Breathe. There’s the open door.

She gets out, pulling her way into the blackened night. The air is fresh, and Héloïse sucks it in like cold water. She tilts her head back, flexing her fingers. To her right, she notes, are two people on a bench, one on top of the other. Héloïse’s age, both with dyed hair and the stench of beer drifting vaguely about them. The girl is on top. Good for her.

Héloïse deliberately turns and walks the length to the other end of the terrace, where litter is congregating on the floor and on a low coffee table. There’s somebody else in the shadows, a cigarette between her fingers. She is peering over Héloïse’s shoulder.

“Are they fucking?” asks the cigarette woman.

Something about her voice feels like a cold hand on Héloïse’s neck. Maybe it was just the blunt questioning. “Nearly,” she responds.

The woman inhales from her cigarette, and her gaze falls upon Héloïse. In that moment, both of them still and stare.

This woman is tall. The same height as Héloïse. She’s wearing doc martens and her hair is up. Her dark hair. Difficult to tell in this shitty lighting. But her face is what does it. Héloïse can’t help but stare at her, which would be incredibly rude if the woman was not staring right back.

“You’re…” the woman’s mouth moves. Smoke pours. She’s a dragon. “Could you speak again?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. Are you drunk?”

“No. This is just my personality.”

The woman laughs, just barely. More of an acknowledgment; an exhale. Her mouth flutters.

“Oh,” the sound escapes Héloïse’s mouth before she can help it. She squints, considers. Steps closer. “I know you.”

“You do,” says Marianne. It’s not a question.

“Marianne,” Héloïse is flat-toned.

Marianne’s eyebrows shoot up and her mouth stretches thin and pleased. “And how do you know that?”

Héloïse doesn’t answer. She is waiting.

Marianne understands but doesn’t give in. “Do you smoke?”

She’s already pulling out the cigarettes. Héloïse takes one gladly and Marianne gives her a lighter. Héloïse sets the flame. Inhales. Exhales. Pretends not to feel Marianne’s gaze on her all the while.

“What colour are your eyes?”

There’s a slight pause. “My eyes?” Marianne sounds unsurprised.

“Yes.”

“Why do you ask?”

Héloïse shrugs. Takes another draft. Inside the house, something like glass shatters, but there isn’t even a gasp to be heard in response. The party roars onwards. “I’ve wondered, over the years. When I met you first I couldn’t place the colour.”

At last, she looks back at Marianne, whose eyebrows are drawn. She studies Héloïse like an enigmatic art exhibit. “Hazel,” she says eventually, long since the question was asked. “And what are yours?”

“Blue.”

“No.”

“No?”

A smile flickers like candlelight on Marianne’s face. The cigarette lingers, entangled in her hand. Forgotten. “They’re not just blue.”

“That’s just the bad lighting,” Héloïse excuses, though she is intrigued.

“No. I noticed that when we met the first time.”

Is that so? Héloïse doesn’t reply at first, taking another drag of her cigarette. She feels dizzy. “What colour do you think they are?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?” when there’s no response, Héloïse pushes further still. “Aren’t you a very serious artist?”

“Sure. But I’m not one for words. Aren’t you a very serious writer?”

Héloïse is caught. She even smiles and to her relief, so does Marianne. “I never said I was serious,” corrects Héloïse in a murmur.

“Pretentious, then. Though I didn’t think pretentious people would blush.”

Blush? Oh. Her cheeks have indeed heated. She feels it on her back too, her t-shirt sticking to her skin. “Mm,” Héloïse dismisses, looking away from Marianne. “That’s the lighting.”

“The lighting.”

“And the heat.”

“It is hot this evening.”

“Night. One a.m. is not evening.”

“Fuck, it’s one a.m.” Marianne doesn’t sound distressed, simply acknowledging it. When Héloïse looks at her, her mouth is open and smoke is pouring out, grey and silver. She is far away. Marianne has aged, of course. Her face is fitted, cheekbones poking through. Eyelashes long and dark. Is she wearing mascara? Her skin is clear. Héloïse still has acne scars on her forehead.

“Why aren’t you drunk?” asks Héloïse.

Marianne doesn’t look at her to answer. “I don’t want to drink tonight.” And she doesn’t elaborate.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Marianne smiles, not in a forced manner. There’s a melancholy to her inscrutable eyes. She raises her cigarette, as if in cheers. “Is that why you’re not drinking?”

“No. I’m the designated driver.”

“Ah. You drive?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m gay, I can’t drive.”

She says it so brazenly that it might have meant nothing, but then Marianne follows it up with a subtle double-take. A flashing glance to gauge reaction. Héloïse can’t muster any expression or response. So she stays as she is.

Marianne moves on swiftly. “Do you want to be drunk?”

“Always.”

Marianne snorts. “Sorry. I laugh, but that’s not healthy.”

“I know. I’m mostly joking. I just…” Héloïse hesitates. She glances back at her forgotten cigarette, perched between her fingers. “… I just don’t want to be here all the time.”

“On earth?”

“Mm. Sometimes I think I’m in between. Not quite living, not quite dead. A ghost.”

“That would explain your disappearance.”

Héloïse looks over at her. Marianne awaiting her stare. There’s a nervousness to her eye and slightly parted lips. A flitting moth. Anticipation risen high in her throat.

“What do you mean?” asks Héloïse blandly.

Marianne stares at her. Something heavy has been set between them.

“Do you remember my name?” asks Héloïse. “You never said it.”

Marianne’s eyes are all the colours of the living world. “Would you like me to say it?”

Héloïse watches her.

Marianne returns the gaze.

Two dogs of the same breed, staring each other down from opposite sides of the street. Bound by separate chains. Two cigarettes clutched by separate, steady hands.

Héloïse’s chain is being yanked on. A siren is wailing in her head.

_Go. Go. Go._

But does she want to?

Someone comes stumbling out of the house. “Héloïse!” comes an indignant, blotchy voice. Héloïse and Marianne break their stare at the same time to turn and face the music. Sophie’s lipstick is smudged, her eyebrows lowered. She reaches up to take hold of Héloïse’s shoulder. Héloïse is quick to wind an arm around her back.

“Can we leave?” asks Sophie, leaning her head against Héloïse. “It stopped being fun… I hate men. I’m going to become a lesbian.”

“Oh, because that’s so much easier,” says Héloïse gently, but now is not the time to chide her drunk friend on her bias. On the small coffee table before them is an ashtray. She abandons her cigarette. “Come on.”

Héloïse knows that Marianne is still stood on the terrace, even as she hauls her babbling friend away. But she doesn’t turn around. Her mind is blank all the way up the driveway. It’s only when they’re in her car, halfway down the road, that Héloïse starts to kick herself.

Fuck.

Another runaway.

“Do you know who I was talking to?” asks Héloïse, in an attempt to salvage something.

Sophie is slumped in the passenger side. “No. Why, is she important?”

Héloïse hesitates. “No,” she says slowly, “I’m asking because I don’t know either.”

“Maybe she crashed the party,” suggests Sophie after a rather long pause. And then she lets out a low, almost whispery gasp. “Or maybe she was a ghost.”

Héloïse hopes she wasn’t a ghost.  
  


_three._

The sky is colourless and it spits rain upon Paris. Héloïse’s umbrella is in her apartment. Suzie is going to give her shit for that later.

She dodges into a museum, somewhere she hasn’t been since she was dragged in there as a child. It seems like others had a similar idea to her, as it’s full of sodden families and loners, dripping on the floor. Just as Héloïse is pulling her hood down, the rain becomes even more audible. She turns to the propped-open doors. Outside, hail hammers on the umbrellas of passers-by. Héloïse may be in here for a while.

She wanders through at a slow pace, picking wet strands of hair from where they have stuck to her forehead. The paintings on display are somewhat more interesting to her now than they were when she was nine. Though she does wonder how many people here are genuinely intrigued and how many are faking it. She feels like she is faking it.

Héloïse wanders for some time. It’s a huge place. She passes a window only to see the rain has not eased in the slightest. On she goes. But as she walks, holding her own hand, Héloïse feels a prickling on her neck. The distinct, uneasy notion that she is being watched.

Héloïse turns and discovers her instinct was correct. She is being tailed, somewhat closely, by a woman who is not dripping on the floor. The woman stops. Caught. Her face becomes small and frozen, awaiting judgment.

Héloïse stares, annoyed at first.

Until suddenly it all clicks. She is greeted by two flashes. One of this same woman breathing smoke and another of a younger version; a teenage girl with a fluttery smile.

Fuck! “Oh.” Héloïse’s annoyance relents all at once.

Marianne breathes at last. A jittery, almost relieved exhale. “Hi,” she says after a moment's silence.

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry for following you, I just thought… well, I was right. It’s you.”

“And it’s you.”

Marianne smiles and nods. Her coat is long and brown to match her dark hair, which is far shorter than before. A pixie cut, is that the name? Aside from that, her face is the same. Though there is a distinct nervousness, the same kind that flitted momentarily on her face at that party. It’s reflected in her voice when she speaks again: “I, you –“ she doesn’t finish her sentence.

Héloïse is smiling. She suddenly feels incredibly light. She’s happy to see Marianne, which is strange. “You missed the rain, I take it?” Héloïse asks, alit, as she takes strides towards Marianne.

“Oh, _oui._ I was in here, so… you didn’t,” she gestures with one hand and laughs. Laughs? What is this. She sounds so nervous, but can’t seem to stop looking at Héloïse.

“No, I came in to get out of it,” says Héloïse, ungracefully. “You were in here for fun? Still a serious artist, I take it?”

Marianne smiles, dipping her head. Her hands are stuffed into the pockets of her coat. “You won’t leave me alone about that, will you?”

“Well, we’ve only met twice. There’s only so much to talk about.”

“Ha. _C’est vrai._ It feels like we’ve met more than that.”

Héloïse feels this way too. “It’s a miracle we still recognize each other. My memory is awful.”

“Speak for yourself. I can memorise faces very easily.”

“Can you? Impressive.”

This conversation hasn’t got much ground. It halts, and the pair linger with a vague awkwardness in the air between them. But Héloïse doesn’t want them to stop talking. She doesn’t want to disappear. What a miracle!

“You look well,” comments Héloïse, suddenly bold.

Marianne touches her chin lightly. “I’m ovulating.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry. That was weird,” Marianne frowns, turning her eyes to the ceiling. “Uh, I just meant… you know, apparently women look better during ovulation. We get clear skin or something.”

“Really?” Héloïse suppresses a smile because Marianne’s face is flaming. “How do you know when you’re ovulating?”

“There’s an app.”

“Is there? How does the app know?”

“You put in, like, your information… I don’t know,” Marianne shrugs dramatically and makes that jittery laugh again. “Why are we talking about this?”

“You brought up ovulation!”

“That’s true. _Desolée,”_ Marianne takes a step away from Héloïse and plants both feet firmly on the ground. She takes a moment. “I’m usually much cooler than this, you know.”

Héloïse nods. She feels impossibly light in knowing that she makes Marianne nervous.

Marianne blinks. “You’ve thrown me a little,” she says, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

The soft and earnest way she admits this shrouds Héloïse in warmth, despite the rainwater that still clings to her skin. “I didn’t think we’d see each other again,” Héloïse adds, equally gentle.

Marianne looks like she might say something more. But then she blinks, breaks eye contact. Her voice is somewhat steadier when she speaks again. “Do you have to be somewhere? Right now?”

Héloïse pretends to think. “Well, I can’t go anywhere until the rain stops.”

Behind their breathless conversation, the rain has hammered on behind the museum walls. Marianne must hear it too. She is gathering Héloïse with a stare and squints at her as she continues. “Do you want to be distracted?”

Héloïse doesn’t move. “Desperately.”

\--

The distraction Marianne has in mind is an unofficial tour of the museum. Maybe not exactly what Héloïse was hoping for (not that she was hoping for anything specific. Definitely not.) but it proves itself entertaining. The museum, as mentioned, is enormous. Perhaps never-ending. And yet Marianne seems to know it back to front. She speaks eloquently, stopping at most paintings, though speaking at length only on her favourites. Héloïse is genuinely interested, at least in some of them. She likes to watch Marianne’s face as she speaks quickly and with passion, the way her eyes dance as she observes the pieces. There’s a dash of dark grey paint on the heel of her right hand.

Marianne walks fast. She loses patience with Héloïse’s casual amble and oftentimes waits up ahead with hands on her hips.

“What’s the rush?” Héloïse teases.

“Well, when the rain lets up, you’ll have to go,” admits Marianne, turning away to face the exhibit up ahead. “I want to get through these.”

“I don’t _have_ to go when the rain stops,” Héloïse corrects.

Marianne looks at her again. “No?”

Héloïse finds her words torn away at this moment. Marianne’s face is clear and open. She is certain that there is not a thing hidden within it. Her eyes all round, neck framed by the collar of her coat. Hair curling just under her ear.

In the end, Héloïse doesn’t need to give an answer. They become distracted by a large portrait Marianne has led her to. The subject is an androgynous figure with short, dark hair. All sallow in their colour. From their eyes pours liquid gold. The background is an array of mismatched colours.

Héloïse looks at Marianne, who seems transfixed by this portrait. “Do you like it?” asks Marianne, without looking away from it.

“Yes. Do you?”

“It’s unnerving.”

“That’s because the eyes are obscured.”

“You think?”

“Eyes are the window to the soul,” Héloïse quotes the familiar phrase, “We always look for them or avoid them, but if they aren’t there, what do we do?”

Marianne turns to her. Héloïse meets her there.

“See?” says Héloïse. “We are looking at each other right now. Imagine if gold started pouring from my eyes. You’d be disturbed.”

“I’d be intrigued,” corrects Marianne.

“You wouldn’t try and help me?”

“Well, would you be in pain?”

“Probably. I don’t think it’s normal for that sort of thing to happen.”

Marianne shrugs. She looks up at the portrait again. “It wouldn’t be the only shocking thing about you.”

She doesn’t elaborate and for some reason, Héloïse doesn’t ask her to.

\--

There’s a gift shop, of course. Mostly over-expensive trinkets for tourists, but also books. Héloïse spends time looking through them with Marianne, mostly wordless. Their arms brush once or twice. They don’t buy anything but deliver polite smiles to the man behind the counter as they depart.

There’s a café too. Héloïse hasn’t eaten all day. She buys a coffee and a chicken sandwich. Marianne buys a slice of chocolate cake.

“Don’t judge me,” she says after she brings it to the small table they have sat at.

“Of course not,” Héloïse frowns. “Why would I?”

“Well, it’s not exactly healthy.”

“Everybody in this city smokes. Nobody comments on that.”

Marianne hums, amused. “My mother doesn’t smoke. She tries to make me stop.”

“Does she try to make you stop eating cake too?”

“No. In fact, she overfeeds me whenever I visit.”

Héloïse’s chicken sandwich is soon devoured. She eyes Marianne’s cake, which is half-eaten. “I might get one of those.”

Marianne glances up at her. “No, just have a bit of mine.”

“What? No, it’s yours.”

“It’s too rich for me to have all of it. Really, I’ll get you a fork.”

“No, it’s okay –“

Marianne is not easily dissuaded. She comes back with a fork and hands it to Héloïse. She pushes the cake between them on the table. Héloïse hesitates before taking a small piece. She eats it. It’s rich, but very good. She knits her eyebrows in concentration.

Glancing up, Marianne bursts with a short laugh.

 _“Quoi?”_ demands Héloïse.

“You look angry.”

“That’s just my resting face.”

“Or is it just your resting… emotion?” she sounds doubtful about the phrasing of her question, but Héloïse understands and considers it.

“Maybe,” she admits after a pause. “I don’t know. I’m not angry right now, though.”

“No?”

“No. I’m having too good of a time.”

Marianne’s smile is small. They finish the chocolate cake and return to the museum.

The number of visitors has since thinned, maybe because the rain has let up, though Héloïse nearly forgot about that. Again, she takes on her slow pace, maybe just to annoy Marianne, who races through an empty room. She disappears momentarily out a door, and when Héloïse reaches it, Marianne is flush against the opposite wall. There is a set of steep stairs going up. Marianne’s expression is gleeful.

“Come,” she instructs. She starts quickly up the stairs but hesitates. Marianne turns and reaches down to grab Héloïse’s wrist. Héloïse is jolted by the sudden and confident move but is gladly led up the stairs. Somewhere along the way, Marianne’s grasp slips and Héloïse clings on, so that their hands are entangled. And when they reach the top of the stairs, they don’t let go.

It reminds Héloïse of that big empty building they first met in. All echoes and endless hallways. Héloïse is sure that there must be people just around the corner, but for now, they don’t exist. For now, it’s only them and the paintings; those with eyes and those without.

Marianne has eyes. Beautiful ones. And she keeps using them to look at Héloïse. Her mouth is open in a grin.

Héloïse is out of breath. “God,” she pants as they trail endlessly along, clinging to each other still. “You walk so fucking fast.”

“It gets me places,” Marianne defends, but she slows noticeably. She exhales narrow breaths. “Do you want to sit down?”

They find a big metal bench without arms or a back. It’s in a room between exhibits, painted white, and facing a large glass window that looks over Paris. Héloïse and Marianne sit there together. Their fingers remain entwined; unapologetically so.

After a moment to catch their breaths, Marianne notes: “It’s stopped raining.”

This is true. The glass pane is patterned with raindrops, but the sky has cleared. Colour has returned. Blue and icy to match the coming winter.

When Héloïse looks over at Marianne, Marianne is staring down at the space between them. Which isn’t large. Their hands are wedged there, and their legs are touching.

Marianne looks up, and they are facing each other.

And Héloïse would like to kiss her.

Why isn’t she?

Kiss her. Her mouth is open and it’s right there.

There’s a noticeable gap. Suddenly Marianne’s face is not quite so close, and Héloïse’s hand is empty and cold.

Marianne stands. “I’m going to find the bathroom,” she manages, her flustered face glowing pink. There’s a hesitation. “Wait here.”

She goes. Héloïse sits on the metal bench, which seems much colder and uglier all of a sudden.

She is left there with a heart that feels suddenly hollow and afraid. And there’s an all too familiar pull at the back of her head.

Don’t go, she asks herself. Don’t go.

Wait here. Marianne said to wait here.

But her face. She left first. Is she afraid of Héloïse?

Héloïse fidgets.

They say you always know exactly what you’re going to do. No matter how many times you tell yourself otherwise. Everybody knows what they’re going to do.

Don’t go. She wants you to stay. Don’t you want to stay?

Remember, Héloïse thinks when she said you were like a ghost? When she noticed your disappearance?

Everybody knows what they’re going to do.

Héloïse disappears. Another ghost in a big and empty house.  
  


_four._

Héloïse has taken to a dangerous habit that everybody in her life warns her against. Running at night.

She knows, okay? She knows it’s madly stupid. But she carries pepper spray, she doesn’t wear earphones. She avoids all the dodgiest areas. This is what she says, again and again to her sister and to Sophie.

“Just run in the daytime!” Sophie begged of her one early morning, ever-rational. “When there are people around who will prevent you from getting murdered or kidnapped or –“

“Okay, the specifics aren’t appreciated,” Héloïse grumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter.

She was not in the mood, but Sophie never seems to care for timing. “Well if you know it all already then why do you do it?” she was not backing down. Hands on hips, small mouth slightly ajar.

They had a minor stare-down, only for Héloïse to give in. “I can’t sleep, okay?” she admitted, fixating on a spot across the room. That mysterious stain on their apartment wall. “I can’t sleep and I get anxious because I can’t sleep. And when I get anxious I have trouble breathing. You know all this.”

Sophie did know all this. She had been witness to it for years now. Still, she persisted. “Can you not just stick your head out the window?”

But it’s not quite so simple. “I can’t explain it,” Héloïse settled after a pause, finally meeting Sophie’s eyes. “I just need to run sometimes.”

Tonight is one of those nights. Paris is empty, black, and smoky. The buildings stretch tall and greyscale. There is absolutely nobody. Héloïse relishes in the cool air as it hits her face. She jogs, following a familiar route.

Usually when Héloïse sees a figure up ahead she will cross the road. Just for the sake of safety. As she twists around a corner, a silhouette is just barely visible. They sway drowsily, and Héloïse slows on instinct, watching them approach.

Cross the road. Is what she should do. Instead, Héloïse stands there blankly as the figure ambles along like a new-born foal. She watches them grip onto a lamppost and let out a short laugh.

A familiar laugh. Héloïse is frozen, skin prickling in the night air.

The unsteady woman pulls herself along, humming nonsensically. Her hair is still short, her face unmistakable. That delicate structure with a hard-set stare. Though her eyes aren’t steady tonight; Marianne’s gaze is loose and unfocused. The stench of alcohol comes closer and closer as Héloïse feels dread settle in her bones.

Marianne has seen her. Héloïse is sure of it. She is being looked at very carefully as Marianne pulls herself drunkenly along, squinting harshly through the night. It’s only when they are within maybe five feet of each other that Marianne straightens. Her eyebrows shoot far up her face and she raises a pale finger to point at Héloïse, as though she’s aiming a bullet between the eyes.

“Oh!” Marianne blurts, breaking through the cold-set quiet. “You’re real. You’re a real person. I thought I was making you up.”

Marianne’s words are slurred. For a moment, Héloïse considers turning and walking away. She curses herself for even thinking of it, for even entertaining the idea of abandoning anybody (let alone Marianne) in this helpless state. “I’m real,” confirms Héloïse in as gentle a tone she can muster. “Are you okay?”

Marianne seems to shake her head, but follows that up with a nod, and then rolls her head around and giggles. “Are YOU okay?” she retorts eventually after a drawn-out pause. She tilts her head and takes a heavy step forward. “Why are you out so late?”

“I was running,” answers Héloïse earnestly. She isn’t sure if this is real, actually. Maybe she managed to fall asleep and is having a dream about meeting Marianne again. It wouldn’t be the first.

Marianne’s jaw drops in a comical fashion. “At night?” she demands, far too loudly. “You could get murdered! People are the fucking worst, they will kill you.”

Héloïse becomes suddenly defensive. “At least I’m sober.”

Marianne gasps, wearing an exaggerated expression of shock. It would be funny of her was she not stumbling drunkenly through the night. “I’m sober!” she sounds deeply offended. She shakes her head, taking a step back. “I’m very sober.”

She tries to step away again but her foot slips. Héloïse rushes forward and fumbles to catch her, one arm wound around her back. Marianne lets out another giggle. Like a child. “Wow!” she mock-gushes. She reaches up, fiercely holding to Héloïse’s shoulders. “You’re so strong… are you a firewoman?”

Héloïse manages to deflect a series of giggly and drunk comments from Marianne and eventually is given her phone. Héloïse picks the first contact she sees, labeled: _Théo._ She holds firmly to Marianne, guiding her along the pathway as she calls the number. He picks up after one ring.

“Marianne?” comes the voice, somewhat concerned from the start.

Héloïse thinks of how to stay this. “Hi, I’m, uh… Marianne is very drunk. I just found her wandering the streets.”

Marianne gasps suddenly and leans her head so that she is close to both the phone and Héloïse’s ear. “Théo, is that you? Why didn’t you come out with me? I’m fucked!” Héloïse burns red after feeling Marianne’s hot breath against her neck, and then promptly and silently tells herself off.

On the other end, Théo exhales heavily. “Oh, _putain._ Hi, thank you, I’m her brother so… I’m sorry, Jesus, I should’ve… where are you, exactly?”

Héloïse tells him just as they arrive at a small park. There’s a bench just outside the locked gate, and she sits them both down there. Théo tells her he’ll be there as quick as he can, and Héloïse returns to the warm body and the lolling head that is humming a discordant tune.

For some moments, its only that. Héloïse is slowly crushed in the quiet night, as she notes the smudged mascara below Marianne’s eyes. Héloïse wants her to be okay. But is anybody this drunk and alone ever okay? She knows that’s never been true for her.

Marianne cracks the mournful silence. “You know…” she begins, and then pauses, as though she herself doesn’t know. “I don’t get drunk very often,” she continues eventually. She turns her heavy head to look Héloïse in the eye. “I don’t want you to think I do. I have a very high tolerance.”

Héloïse can’t help it. “Why are so you drunk now?”

Marianne throws one hand up in the air, almost smacking Héloïse in the face. “Because I’m sad! Why else?”

“What are you sad about?” Héloïse asks though she thinks she probably shouldn’t. It’s not her business. Marianne is drunk. She probably doesn’t even recognize Héloïse.

Marianne frowns, crinkling her forehead. Her eyes are sparkly. “Who knows? Everything. The state of the world. My shitty art career,” she widens her eyes and leans close to Héloïse’s face. “I’m a terrible painter,” she whispers.

Héloïse shakes her head, serious. “No, you’re not. You’re very talented.”

Marianne pulls away and squints hard at Héloïse. “How do you know that? Are you a stalker?”

Héloïse considers brushing it off but finds that she can’t. “We’ve met before. Three times, actually.”

Marianne hesitates. And then, silently, her eyes grow moon-like and dazzling. “Oh!” she opens her mouth wide. “So you _are_ her.”

She smiles fondly at Héloïse and rocks a little. “The vanisher,” Marianne clarifies after a moment.

Héloïse blinks. “Is that what I am?”

“Why, of course,” Marianne smiles, and her stare grows sleepy. “That’s why I thought you were a vision first. I’ve painted you, you know?”

Héloïse feels both as full as the ocean and as empty as a desolate cave. “Have you?” she whispers.

Marianne nods slowly, shutting her eyes as she does. She remains that way for a moment but then forces herself to look again. “Do you remember my name?” she asks, tilting her head dramatically.

Héloïse can’t help but smile, only faintly. “Marianne.”

Marianne points at her, the finger lingering very close to her lips. Héloïse’s mouth is open, she realises. “I told you that,” Marianne says, proudly. She drops the finger to her lap. “See? I’m not that drunk. I remember things. Like beautiful people.”

She inhales heavily through her nose and widens her eyes a little. Marianne shakes her head, disbelieving. “It’s like your face is stuck in my head,” she claims slowly, in annoyance. “Around and around. A record player.”

Marianne purses her lips and seems to steady herself for one sober, unblinking moment. She leans closer.

Héloïse can’t move. She’s a statue in the museum, on display for Marianne alone. Only ever for Marianne.

Marianne, who dares to pull a finger up and stroke Héloïse’s burning cheek.

“Such a pretty face,” she whispers.

Héloïse looks at her. “Do you remember my name,” she breathes, unable to phrase it like a question.

Marianne smiles wide and thin. She nods slowly, three times. She looks like she is about to fall asleep. Her finger still brushes Héloïse’s face.

Héloïse exhales shakily. “Say it,” she asks. Nearly begging. “Please.”

Marianne stares at her, no longer smiling. She blinks slowly and brushes her thumb lightly against Héloïse’s lips.

Théo arrives. Maybe after minutes or hours or days of Marianne’s thumb resting on Héloïse’s mouth. It’s all such a blur that Héloïse doesn’t remember when Marianne pulls away, but she must, because soon Marianne is not on the bench. She’s stumbling off to the opening car door. Out steps a very tall man, taller than Marianne. His hair is dark and he exhales in total relief.

“Fucking hell, Marianne,” he huffs and takes her by both shoulders.

Marianne leans her head back dramatically and speaks loudly up at him. “Did you hear me on the phone? I drank a LOT, Théo…”

“I can tell,” Théo sighs, but there’s a fondness there. He reaches down and ruffles Marianne’s short hair. “Dumbass.” He says it with all the brotherly affection on earth.

Héloïse hasn’t moved at all and hopes to remain invisible. But as Marianne gets into the passenger side, Théo makes eye contact with her. Quickly, he rushes over, and Héloïse stands from the bench.

“Hey, thank you so much, uh…”

“Héloïse.”

“Héloïse. Thank you,” he sighs, putting a hand to his forehead. “She’ll be really fucking embarrassed in the morning.”

Héloïse can’t help but smile, only slightly. “I can imagine.”

“Uh, do you want a ride anywhere?” he asks, hands in his pockets. Something in his manner here reminds her of Marianne. “It’s late, I could drop you to your place, or…?”

Héloïse’s mouth is dry. She glances at the car and sees Marianne behind the dusty window. Her finger traces the glass. She is looking right at Héloïse, mouth open.

Héloïse hears herself give the answer before she knows she has made a decision.

“No, thank you. I’m not far from here.”

Théo thanks her again, profusely, and goes. They drive away and Héloïse walks home, dazed.

When she wakes the next day she wonders if she dreamt it. But her cheek is burning where Marianne stroked it and her lips feel delicate all through the morning and afternoon.

She keeps thinking about what Marianne called her. The vanisher.

And is she so wrong?

Héloïse kicks herself for it ten thousand more times.  
  


_five._

Héloïse has a date. It’s not Marianne, don’t get excited. Héloïse certainly isn’t excited.

Sophie is more enthusiastic about it.

“Okay, I know I’m not into women,” she said while munching cereal and staring at the photo Héloïse had shown her of the date in question. “But holy shit.”

“I know,” said Héloïse unenthusiastically.

“Her _eyeliner.”_

Héloïse withdrew the phone. Sophie gave her a questioning look. “Why aren’t you losing your mind?”

Héloïse shrugged. She took a bite of the green apple she held. Sharp on her tongue.

“Do you think it’s too good to be true or something?”

Héloïse widened her eyes in mock-offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, not -” Sophie stops, and pales slightly. She drops the spoon back into her cereal bowl. “No, I just mean…”

“I’m kidding,” says Héloïse softly, unable to let Sophie embarrass herself for too long. “She’s out of my league, I know.”

“Not out of your league. Just… a rare find.”

“Mm.”

Sophie looked like she wanted to press further, but gave in with a sigh. “It’ll be good,” is where she left it. She reminds Héloïse of this once again before leaving in the afternoon for her pottery course. Héloïse remains doubtful.

Héloïse doesn’t mean that to be offensive to the woman in question. She seemed perfectly nice when Héloïse messaged her through the dating app, and her ‘About me’ bit says she likes Radiohead. And Sophie is right - her eyeliner is perfect; she must have the steadiest hands on the planet. And she’s stunning. So Héloïse should be looking forward to it more than she is.

So why is Héloïse almost thankful when she goes out to the club they agreed to meet at only to stand there for forty-five minutes waiting? When she texts the woman in question, there is no response. Not the first, second, or third time.

Héloïse realises abruptly that she’s been ghosted. Is that the phrase?

And again, she’s a little relieved.

Héloïse stands against the wall and searches the crowd of faces. Though she would never admit it, not to herself nor to anybody else, she is looking for a particular person. Warm hands. Short, dark hair. That sparkling smile. A pair of muddled eyes – hazel eyes, she said. It still feels more complicated than that. If Héloïse had looked hard enough during their four meetings, then she’s certain she could’ve found every colour in Marianne’s eyes.

But she never concentrated hard enough. Never had enough time.

That’s a lie. She would’ve had time, had she stayed. Even _once._

She’s hardly better than her date is now. A ghost. A vanisher, said Marianne.

Héloïse always runs.

And she’ll probably run again. _If_ they meet again. Even though they won’t, and Héloïse wouldn’t blame Marianne for avoiding her. If she doesn’t go on courses or to house parties or that museum. Or get drunk out of her mind.

That was a year ago now. Jesus. A year! She’s still thinking about Marianne after a year, and it’s rare that a day goes by where her name or face or hands don’t come to mind at least once. But it was always a little like that, each time she left and Héloïse hardly forgave herself.

Does she dare to hope? That maybe Marianne thinks of her too? She did say that she painted Héloïse. _Painted_ her.

But she was drunk. She was really, really drunk.

God. Héloïse hopes she’s okay now. Héloïse hopes she’s not drunk and alone again.

Maybe she met somebody who’ll stay with her.

Yes, that would be good.

Héloïse smokes outside for ten minutes. And then she goes back to the apartment. She’ll watch a movie with Sophie or something. She’ll have a shower and go to sleep and will not dream of Marianne.

Héloïse won’t go running at 5 a.m. and hope to find her. She won’t go stand outside the building they met at years ago. She won’t go to that museum again and hope to find her there.

Marianne won’t be there. And that’s okay. Get over it.

She has almost convinced herself of this when she turns the key and opens into the kitchen, where Marianne stands facing the door, as though she was expecting Héloïse all along.

It becomes almost instantly clear that this is not the case, as Héloïse watches Marianne go completely still. Dark eyebrows raised, lips parted just slightly. Arms long and limp either side. Her hair is longer now, hovering above her shoulders. She doesn’t look drunk. She looks good. She looks like Marianne.

Héloïse blinks. And again, slower. But Marianne remains there upon every opening of her eyes. Completely frozen, but there. Héloïse moves her head, a sudden jerky motion that makes her realises she too has been completely still up until this point. But Marianne stays.

She is not a trick of the light.

Footsteps sound out from nowhere and all too quickly Sophie appears from around the corner. She jumps back in shock, splaying a small hand across her chest.

“Fuuu- _cking_ hell,” Sophie exhales, finding her footing. But she’s not been jump-scared by Marianne, instead by Héloïse, who she eyes with some irritation. “Make some noise when you come in the door, won’t you?”

Héloïse doesn’t say anything. She can’t. None of this is making sense. She’s also having trouble taking her eyes off Marianne, who has just managed to shut her mouth, though the rest of her has been thunderstruck.

“I thought you were on a date?” asks Sophie, whose stare has begun to flicker between Héloïse and Marianne. She places her hands on her hips. “With killer eyeliner girl?”

Héloïse should probably say something. “Killer eyeliner girl didn’t show up,” is what she settles on, and she watches Marianne’s eyes grow wide again in the hearing of her voice.

“Oh,” said Sophie, who sounds more disappointed than Héloïse feels. “Rude of her.”

“I’m not that bothered. Marianne,” says Héloïse in a rush. She just needed to get Marianne’s name out there.

Marianne has no reaction at first. But then she exhales, slow and deliberate, and nods.

“You know each other?” Sophie asks, her tone wary.

“We’ve met a few times,” says Marianne in _her_ voice. Her voice, intelligent and concentrated. Holy fuck, Héloïse missed that sound.

There’s a twitch on the surface of her skin, around the back of her neck. Like the pull of a string. _Go,_ it whispers. The door is still open. In fact, she’s still gripping the handle.

She surprises herself with the ease of which she lets go of it. Héloïse moves altogether, finally looking away to turn and shut the door. When she turns back around, she faces Marianne.

“Do you want to explain, or should I?”

\--

They take turns.

Soon the whole story is expelled between the three of them. The part that Héloïse was unaware of is that Marianne and Sophie were attending the same pottery course, and bonded over how shit they are at pottery. Also that on this particular day, Sophie discovered that Marianne had never seen ‘A Town called Panic’ and planned to watch it with her at the apartment. What Marianne was unaware of is that Sophie is not only Héloïse’s roommate but also the same very drunk girl who Héloïse was driving home at the house party about three years ago. What Sophie was unaware of was absolutely everything else.

“So… wait,” Sophie frowns, both hands up in the air as she contemplates the story that has just been told. “You’ve met four separate times over several years, and you never got each other’s information?”

“Never got a chance,” says Marianne, before draining a glass of water that she just got from the kitchen. She has been wearing a very serious expression all evening and hasn’t once met Héloïse’s eyes. Héloïse feels flushed embarrassment crawl up her neck.

Sophie knows what this means and delivers Héloïse a displeased squint, though thankfully she dropped it. “So what’s the case then? Do you two hate each other or love each other?”

“No,” blurts Héloïse, which is not an answer.

“Mm,” Sophie seems to know. “Well. This evening has taken a turn.”

There’s a quick silence before Marianne interjects: “Do you still want to watch the movie?”

“Oh. Yeah, wow I nearly forgot about that with all the chaos.”

Sophie stands up to go find her laptop and Héloïse quickly, as though by instinct, stands to leave the room. She feels Marianne’s gaze prickling on the back of her neck. Just as she’s at the door to her room, Sophie calls out: “You can watch it with us if you want.”

Héloïse turns around, caught. She looks at Marianne before Sophie. Marianne looks a little queasy all of a sudden.

Sophie’s dark eyes dark between the two. “Unless you two are going to be weird.”

Héloïse waits for Marianne to speak.

“No,” says Marianne. “Not weird. I don’t mind.”

Héloïse has never been good at not acting weird, but Sophie knows this already. Though she’s already ten times more on edge with Marianne on the other end of the couch. Thankfully, Sophie plonks herself between them, perhaps deliberately. She sticks the DVD into her laptop and spends ten minutes trying to play it with Héloïse’s assistance. Neither have ever been very good with technology.

Marianne, however, seems to know what to do. “Look, I think you just click this,” she says and reaches across to the trackpad. Héloïse pulls away, but not quick enough, as Marianne’s fingertips brush her knuckle. And when Héloïse glances up, she sees that the first few buttons of Marianne’s shirt are undone. Héloïse lurches dramatically back onto the couch. Sophie definitely notices but has the courtesy to not mention it.

Héloïse has seen this film twice. It’s quite good, actually, but after recent events, she just can’t concentrate. She is conscious of each movement she makes. Héloïse sticks her neck out as to rid of her double chin, and thinks nonsensically of the spot that appeared yesterday at the line of her jaw. Can Marianne see it?

Not that Marianne is looking at her. She’s probably watching the movie. Except that the few times she does look up, Marianne meets her eyes. Like she loves to do.

\--

When the movie is over and Héloïse thinks she is done spiraling, Sophie yawns dramatically.

“What time is it?” she asks nobody and reaches for her phone, which is face down on the coffee table before them. She checks it. “Holy fuck, it’s half ten.”

Marianne blinks, confused, so Héloïse elaborates on Sophie’s behalf. “Sophie’s been going to bed at ten p.m. recently.”

“I work early,” she explains. “And I _love_ sleeping.”

Sophie stands. Marianne makes a move to also get out and Héloïse feels a lurching in her chest, as though she is being yanked in the same direction by an invisible rope.

But Sophie (oh, gracious Sophie) turns and holds a hand out towards Marianne before she can stand. “No. You should stay.”

Marianne’s eyes are round as dinner plates. “Should I?” her voice is high and fluty.

Sophie glances at Héloïse, and her stare is ever-knowing. “I think you two should probably talk about… whatever. I don’t know. There’s obviously something going on here and I don’t want the pair of you to be miserable. Especially not you, Héloïse, because then I’ll have to live with you while you mope.”

Sophie moves around the couch while Héloïse and Marianne remain completely still where they’re sat. “I’ll see you next week for the pottery, Marianne,” says Sophie before takes a short bow and shuts her bedroom door. Leaving Héloïse and Marianne alone on a wine red couch. With suddenly nowhere to look but at each other.

Héloïse doesn’t know what to say for a moment. What comes out of her mouth is: “Do you want a drink?”

Marianne doesn’t answer immediately. “No thank you,” is what she comes out with, somewhat curtly. And then, softer: “I’ve stopped drinking quite so much.”

“Oh,” Héloïse becomes aware and nods. Her arm is draped across the back of the couch. Marianne is totally stiff. “When’s the last time you drank?”

Marianne inhales, eyes darting away to her hand, which draws patterns on her trouser leg. “A few months ago,” she says after consideration. “But I haven’t been drunk in over a year now.”

Over a year. Héloïse nods again. She becomes suddenly aware of just how quiet it is. There’s not even a sound from Sophie’s room, or from the corridor outside their apartment door. She sort of wishes there were at least cars whizzing by on the street below, or music playing faintly from next door. But there is absolutely nothing, save for their own breaths. Even Héloïse’s mind is still as an untouched lake.

Marianne elaborates. “That was a very bad year,” she explains and reaches up to rub at the back of her neck. “But my brother helped. Théo, you…”

“I met him, yes,” Héloïse recalls, “he seems kind.”

A flicker of a smile crosses Marianne’s face, but it soon disappears, quick as a shadow from the sun. “He is. He worries about me, which is fair. But I’m doing better now. Really.”

So much goes unspoken, but their conversation lingers on. Neither can quite bear to give it up, even as they speak of nothing. Marianne unstiffens, slowly, but there’s still a new wall up. And how can one blame her? For sheltering herself from Héloïse’s acidic rain. Héloïse too is quieter. Warier. Both know it. Neither do anything about it. It makes Héloïse ache.

They dodge most mentions of their time together. But soon, as the night crawls on, they are speaking about art. And Marianne mentions the museum. When Héloïse nods, Marianne smiles properly for the first time tonight. And this one lasts.

“Have you actually been back to a museum since then?” she asks. She is twirling some of her dark hair around her finger.

Héloïse considers not saying it. Maybe it’s too much to admit. But she can’t seem to stop herself. “I went back there,” she tells Marianne, unflinching.

Marianne’s smile is gone, but the wall has dipped. “Did you?” she asks in a low breath. She leaves her mouth ajar.

Héloïse takes on the burden of a smile, which feels wobbly and afraid as it lingers on her lips. “More than once,” she confirms.

Marianne looks at her. “Did you ever see me?”

“No. If I had I would’ve gone to you.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

There’s no malice in Marianne’s tone, but Héloïse’s heart still takes a dive beneath icy water. She manages to hold this feeling low in her throat and bites her bottom lip to keep it from wobbling.

This silence between them lasts a little while. Neither can bear to say anything.

But Héloïse picks it back up. She owes this. “I started to think that maybe you can only be found when you want to be found,” she confesses.

Marianne does not smile. But her eyes spark in a dangerous and beautiful manner. “Funny. That’s what I started to think about you.”

They fall quiet again, but it is not uncomfortable. Marianne’s hand is resting on the couch between them. Héloïse wants to take it.

Before she can make the leap (though who knows if she ever would have) Marianne picks her phone out of her pocket and makes a sound low in her throat. “Fuck. It’s late.”

Héloïse doesn’t have to check the time to realise this for herself. The blinds on the window across from them are half-pulled down, and all Héloïse can see of Paris are speckled streetlights and a black sky. “You’re not walking home now.”

“Well, I have to,” Marianne sighs in resignation.

“No. You can stay here.”

Héloïse says it before she knows what she means, but is soon ushering Marianne off the couch so she can make it up as a bed. She makes sure to be quiet as she convinces Marianne and gathers a pillow and duvet and clothes for Marianne to sleep in (her clothes, _her clothes)_ all while something buried deep within Héloïse tells her that this is too much, too close. Tells her to drive Marianne home, or even call her a ride. But her body and mouth move on.

Soon, Marianne emerges from the bathroom in a t-shirt and leggings that Héloïse hasn’t worn in three years. She walks nervously, fidgeting with the hem of the t-shirt and the ends of her hair. Héloïse stares at her for maybe a moment too long, before stepping away towards the door to her own room.

“If you need anything,” Héloïse says, which sounds like a stupid remark to make.

Marianne shakes her head. “This is already very good of you.”

There’s a hovering silence. Héloïse hates this. She wants Marianne to say what she is thinking again. To call her out. To take her hand, stroke her face with the back of a finger. Tell her, again, while sober, that she painted her. That she can’t forget her.

She wants this. She aches for this.

But instead, she says: “Goodnight.”

Marianne’s eyes are enormous. She doesn’t move. “Goodnight.”

Héloïse goes into her room and shuts the door. For a moment she rests her hand on the doorknob.

She lets go of it.

Surely Marianne wouldn’t want her bed. After Héloïse ran four times.

No. Five times. She ran again just now. Héloïse leans her head, heavy, against the door frame.

What would it feel like to stay? For once? Her body always reacts as though for survival. It’s a physical strain. Cold fear that grips at her throat and ices her veins. _Go,_ it whispers. _Go. Save yourself._

Héloïse is sick of it. The push and the pull.

She wants to stay. To know what it would feel like to stay.

Her heart races as she lies in bed. She has always known that to mean fear but tonight it is something more. Tonight, her heart beats for hope.

And hope knocks. Politely, three times, after maybe half an hour of Héloïse’s restlessness. Héloïse sits up and stares at the door. Maybe she imagined it.

But then it opens, and Marianne takes a step in. The room behind her is black, and she is shrouded in grey like that drunken early morning on the streets of Paris. But tonight she is sober, she is wearing Héloïse’s clothes. She has her mouth open.

She lingers a moment, then seems overcome and ducks away, making to shut the door. Pretend to be a figment of imagination. Like Héloïse hasn’t pictured this before.

But Héloïse doesn’t want to dream of it any longer. “Stay,” she asks, maybe too loud.

Marianne stops. Looks up.

Stay.

What a thing to ask of someone. What a hypocrite Héloïse is.

And yet, Marianne steps in and shuts the door. She walks tentatively across the floorboards, soundless and ghostly. But when she gets into bed on the side Héloïse always leaves cold, her warmth is heavy and real.

When they meet eyes in the dark, Héloïse feels like she has been breathing in stuffy air all her life, and for the first time has stepped into the cool night air. It’s like seeing the stars for the first time.

Thoughtless, Héloïse reaches out and takes Marianne’s hand from where it lies by her face. Her hand is cold, so Héloïse holds it in both of hers. Just to warm it up. To make her feel warm. Marianne looks at her like she is otherworldly.

“Do you believe in fate?” whispers Héloïse.

Marianne doesn’t blink. “No,” she answers beneath her breath.

Héloïse is not afraid anymore. “Then why do we keep meeting each other?”

Marianne's eyes are hard and unrelenting, and even in the dark, they are outward explosions. Sparks from a flame. And yet, when Marianne speaks, her voice is a quiet and adoring admittance. “Because I keep looking for you.”

\--

Héloïse falls asleep easier than she has in years. She doesn’t know how she will sleep again without the entanglement of Marianne in her arms.

And yes, entanglement is the word. Somewhere in the night, they fall into each other. When Héloïse flutters awake in the very early morning, there is an arm slung across her chest. An ankle strewn across her own. A body stirring before her.

“Héloïse?” comes a whisper.

Two things. One is that Héloïse did not wake without reason; this voice has been pulling her from the lovely dark of sleep. Two is that Marianne has not said Héloïse’s name before.

She could make a point out of this. But she is too groggy. She feels too safe.

But she does open her eyes, and tilt her head up. Marianne is there, hovering over her. Her hair is sticking up. Héloïse reaches out to smooth it and doesn’t even feel a jolt of fear or apprehension. It just seems right.

Marianne’s eyes flicker shut. But she opens them again. “Héloïse,” she says.

Not a question, but Héloïse answers nonetheless. “Yes.”

Marianne doesn’t blink. “Can I kiss you?”

Héloïse is mindless. All she has is her body. Her mouth. Desire. Need she even answer? She probably knew that this was going to happen. From the moment Marianne got into bed with her? From the moment Héloïse saw her standing in the kitchen? No, from the moment they had their first conversation in that empty house when they were teenagers. Everybody knows what they’re going to do. Maybe that’s what scared her so badly.

But she is not afraid anymore.

Héloïse gives her answer. A low-whispered and certain: “Please.”

At first, Marianne almost acts like she didn’t hear. But then, she reaches out a hand. Her fingertips dance along Héloïse’s neck. She is coming closer, her hair hanging in short, dark waves, strands resting on Héloïse’s cheeks. Her fingers move along to stroke Héloïse’s jaw, and then her face.

Héloïse doesn’t quite believe it’s real. Not even when Marianne’s eyelashes are close enough to flutter against her cheek.

And then Marianne kisses her. It’s slow and honest. Héloïse’s heart is on her tongue, and if Marianne takes it she won’t mind. Marianne can have it. She can swallow it and feel it burn within her and that would be alright.

Time is gone. They could stay like this for a century and Héloïse wouldn’t notice. In this moment there is nothing she cares about more than Marianne’s mouth and heart. More than remaining here. Even when they break apart and say no more, she wants to stay.

-

Héloïse stays. In the morning, she is there.

Marianne is not.

_and the one time._  
  


She’s not in the apartment.

Héloïse stumbles into the kitchen, barefoot, eyes wild. Sophie is sat at the table eating a piece of toast covered in jam. “Where’s Marianne?” blurts Héloïse, unable to force a ‘good morning’.

Sophie raises her eyebrows, swallowing a bite of toast. “At her place, I presume?” she says slowly.

“No – fuck, she…”

“Did she stay over?” Sophie’s eyes widen and she sits up straight. “Oh my god, you fucked.”

“Sophie, that’s so crass,” splutters Héloïse, running towards the couch on the other side of the room. It’s still made up like a bed, untouched. Marianne’s clothes are slung over the side. Héloïse pales. Wherever Marianne is, she is still wearing Héloïse’s t-shirt and leggings.

When she whirls around, Sophie is still staring at her, munching on her toast. Héloïse is least concerned with explaining things to her, so her words come out fumbled and unpractised. “We talked for too long and it got dark,” Héloïse rushes to the door. Marianne’s shoes are gone. “So I said she could stay, and I made up the couch.” The coat rack too – her long coat was hanging there yesterday. “But she ended up sleeping with me. Sleeping in the _bed,_ not…”

She whirls around, breathless, to Sophie, who is watching with great interest. “And she kissed me,” Héloïse finishes miserably.

“Oh my god!” Sophie nearly laughs, but cleverly withdraws it when she sees Héloïse’s expression. It’s then that she seems to put the pieces together: that Marianne has gone. “Oh.”

Héloïse’s hands are beginning to tremble. “Do you have her number?” she asks, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

“No. You didn’t get it?” Sophie stares at her in such a way that makes Héloïse feel so stupid. Though Sophie quickly withdraws this expression and reaches a hand across the table. “It’s okay,” she says, but it’s not.

Héloïse didn’t ask for Marianne’s number. Why didn’t she? What the _fuck._ Uneven breath jitters up Héloïse’s throat. But still, she moves to the window and yanks up the blinds. She searches the streets down below. Several bobbing heads.

Marianne isn’t among them.

Héloïse is shaking.

“Héloïse,” comes Sophie’s budding concern. A chair scrapes against the floorboards, and Sophie is soon by her side, holding tight to her arm. Héloïse knows that Sophie is trying to catch her eye, but Héloïse cannot look away from the street. From all the streets of Paris, on which Marianne walks, wearing Héloïse’s clothes. But where? _Where?_

“Héloïse,” says Sophie again. “You should sit down.”

Héloïse shivers. She cannot sit down.

Marianne could be anywhere.

Ghosted.

\--

Sophie eventually coaxes Héloïse to the table, where she sits and trembles and drinks water to soothe her sore throat. She hates to be like this, upset and jittery and breathless. Héloïse got this so much more often as a child and a teenager. Why hasn’t she gotten over it?

Sophie sits in quiet for a while, finishing her toast. But when her plate is empty, she folds her hands on the tabletop and says, somewhat dryly: “So you like her. Lots.”

Héloïse shakes her head and launches into babbling again. “Stop, stop, I can’t bear it.”

“Clearly not.”

Héloïse turns her glare to Sophie, who throws her hands up in defence.

“What?” she protests. “I mean. You couldn’t bear your feelings for her and I’m guessing that’s why you keep leaving her alone.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Héloïse, annoyed. She already sussed this last night and doesn’t need the embarrassment repeated to her face.

“And now she’s gone,” Sophie continues. “She’s doing to you what you did to her. Four times.”

Héloïse feels an awful dawning in her chest. “So you think it’s punishment.”

Sophie says nothing, but her mouth becomes small. Her eye contact doesn’t break; she’s never one to look away, but there’s an earnest, pitiful glimmer within it. It’s all the answer Héloïse needs to what Sophie thinks.

“She’ll come back,” says Sophie in reassurance. “She left her clothes here. And I see her at next week’s pottery thing.”

But there’s still doubt in her tone. To whether Marianne will come back. Or if she will take on the role of vanisher. Héloïse feels like she is crumbling.

But something bubbles within her.

Hope. The deadliest of all evils. Héloïse breathes for it still. Some part of her knows that Marianne wouldn’t punish her so cruelly.

No. This is something else.

And Héloïse makes a decision.

\--

She gets dressed and takes off. She has work to do but she can finish that in the evening, or tomorrow. Whatever. There are more pressing matters to attain to.

Héloïse isn’t even thinking as she walks into town. The sky is still in its earliest stages, a pale shade of blue. Cloudless. Héloïse pushes through the growing numbers on the streets.

There’s always the chance that Marianne really was messing with her. That she is a cruel person after all. Who would Héloïse be to know that; they’ve only met five times. And even if she had kissed Héloïse and disappeared, could it be called cruel? Might Héloïse deserve it? Thinking about this makes her head spin, hands sweat.

No. She is not going to crumble. She’s not a goner, not yet.

The museum isn’t busy today from the looks of things. No rain to shelter from. Héloïse rushes up to the entrance. The doors are pulled open, welcoming her.

Inside is the entrance, wide and spacious with a few visitors.

Héloïse is only looking at one.

Marianne is waiting there, in the centre. Long brown coat. Héloïse’s t-shirt and leggings. Dancing eyes, already watching when Héloïse meets them.

Héloïse walks up to Marianne at a steady pace. Marianne remains where she is. The only thing she moves is her mouth, which falls just slightly ajar. But Héloïse restrains herself and instead passes Marianne. But as she goes, Héloïse reaches down and entangles their fingers.

Héloïse walks slowly through the museum, trying to quell the rushing of her heart. The relief in her bones. Héloïse is at first pulling Marianne along, but soon Marianne is walking beside her. Though Héloïse can feel herself being watched intently, she refuses to meet Marianne’s stare. Instead, she regulates her breathing and walks instead of runs. Feigning patience. Even if, as she goes, her cool demeanour melts, and there is a ticking at the back of her head.

Héloïse hasn’t planned this, exactly. But soon she finds it; an empty spot in a room with stairs leading up. Suddenly she is not walking, instead rushing, one hand reaching out to brace herself against the wall. She stops and turns to look at Marianne at last. Marianne, who is already looking. Marianne, who pushes herself back against the wall and is already tilting her head before Héloïse has even moved in.

But then Héloïse moves in.

All the sleepiness and softness of the night before is gone. Right now, this kiss is a culmination of not just a morning of panic, but years of aching and turning away. Of not looking back out of fear. Survival instinct.

All her instincts all gone. She is willing to be hurt if it means they can do more of this. Lots of this.

Marianne kisses her back with an open mouth and slings an arm around the back of Héloïse’s neck. Was she imagining this before Héloïse came in? Did she plan her movements, dream of Héloïse’s mouth? She was waiting for her, after all.

To think of such a thing.

To dare.

Héloïse tangles her hands in Marianne’s hair. Marianne’s breath hitches.

To hear that alone.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

\--

Héloïse hasn’t eaten. Neither has Marianne, turns out. They eat in the museum coffee shop after managing to pull apart. Marianne’s hair is ruffled, and Héloïse can’t help but smile into her tea.

Marianne’s eyes are tender when she looks over Héloïse, her mouth curved into a gentle, effortless smile. The scone on her plate is half-eaten by the time she asks a serious, quiet question.

“Why did you leave the museum?” Marianne fixes Héloïse with a stare she cannot lie in the face of. “The third time we met. I asked you to stay and you left.”

Héloïse wants to answer earnestly, but the truth is that she hardly knows the answer. She tries to think of what she believed in that moment. “I thought you wanted me to.”

Marianne doesn’t flinch. “Do you always think people want you gone?”

Héloïse puts the teacup on its plate and starts into the calm brown colour as it settles. She frowns at it. Does she think that?

Marianne seems to notice her concern, and reaches across the table, sliding her hand over Héloïse’s. When Héloïse looks up, Marianne is waiting, head straightened, mouth set in a straight line.

“Do like being the vanisher?” breathes Marianne.

Héloïse blinks and gives a small shake of her head. “No,” she admits.

Marianne doesn’t break her gaze. She’s asking Héloïse to go on.

Héloïse inhales through her nose and turns her hand so that the palm faces up. She holds Marianne’s properly. How does she explain such a thing?

“I don’t want to,” Héloïse repeats, looking down at their clasped hands. “But it feels like I’m ingrained to always leave. When I was younger I tried to run away, constantly. I almost did, once, but my sister found me. She cried so hard with relief that I never did it again and I’ve always believed since then that at least she wants me to stay. But everybody else… I don’t know.”

Marianne squeezes her hand.

“Do you know…” Héloïse hesitates, considering if she should reveal this. If it’s too much.

“Tell me,” says Marianne, sensing this. Her tone of voice is gentle as unhurried summer wind. In this instant, Héloïse believes that Marianne truly wants to know.

So she goes on.

“My dad left,” Héloïse feels oddly calm in the confession. “Before he died. We didn’t hear from him for years and only got word once he was gone. He was always on the move, maman used to say. She was bitter about it. I never knew how to feel.”

Héloïse’s throat is dry. “My sister took from maman; she stays where she is. She’s comfortable staying. But dad… he could never stay still. I think I might be like him. I think that’s why I run.”

Her hand is growing sweaty in Marianne’s grasp, but their grip on each other doesn’t falter. And just as well, because without it Héloïse doesn’t know if she could force this past her lips.

“The night after I nearly succeeded in running away, I had an awful argument with maman. I was eleven,” she explains. Swallows. “And she said… that if I did it again she wouldn’t try and stop me. Because she thought it was inevitable. She said it was in my blood.”

Héloïse shrugs. “I don’t think she remembers saying that. And since then she’s made up for it, mostly. She’s a great parent. She was just really stressed at the time. I think I just believed her. So I give in to the urge to leave very easily.”

Marianne hasn’t said a word. When Héloïse looks at her, all the hard edges of her face are gone. She is an open heart. Her eyes are glossy.

Héloïse purses her lips and breathes away the toughness in her throat. “But last night I didn’t want to go,” she tells Marianne. “I could’ve stayed there forever with you.”

And it’s true. Marianne seems to know it. She blinks quickly and looks down at the table. In Héloïse’s grip, Marianne’s hand trembles just a little.

Héloïse can’t help but smile. “Are you emotional about that?”

“Mm. Fuck off,” mumbles Marianne, reaching up with her other hand to quickly wipe her eye.

“No, it’s fair enough. This is several years late,” Héloïse blinks softly. “I wish I had told you this when we met the first time. I know it wouldn’t have made sense, and I didn’t feel as strongly for you then. But this would’ve been far less drawn out had I realised all that from the start.”

Marianne smiles at last and shakes her head at the table. She strokes a thumb across Héloïse’s knuckles.

They remain there a little while. And Héloïse feels no need to run. She has never felt so at home.

And then, Marianne says: “I have to show you something.”

\--

Marianne’s apartment is much like Héloïse’s, though a little smaller; she hasn’t got a roommate. Héloïse looks around at the bare walls, the bookcase, the armchair, and the torn rug. There’s paint on the floor and even a bit on the ceiling when she looks up.

“Come here,” says Marianne, and beckons her into a smaller room off to the side. Héloïse takes a breath and follows.

There are canvases stacked against the wall, and a tarp strewn off to the side on the floor. Turpentine and paint stain the air. On an easel across the room, there sits another Héloïse in oil paint. With her back facing the room.

Héloïse stares. In the painting, Héloïse wears a jacket she lost years ago. When did she wear that? At the portrait course, or the house party? She can’t remember, but Marianne did. Her hair is in a bun, fine and detailed. Not exact. But how could it be? All around her is an amalgamation. A big empty room. The colourful, faded lights from the outside of a house party. A window like that from the museum. Darkness like an early morning where Marianne has alcohol on her breath.

“I’ve painted your face before,” Marianne speaks, and when Héloïse turns to look at her she is staring wistfully at the painting. “But I couldn’t get it right.”

“So you painted me running away,” Héloïse whispers.

Marianne faces her. Patiently awaiting the verdict.

Héloïse turns back to the portrait. Considers it.

“I’ll sit for you,” she decides firmly.

Marianne’s eyebrows raise, but she is smiling with a pink mouth. “And you’ll stay still?” she teases.

Héloïse’s eyes sparkle, and she nods. “Yes.”

She’ll stay.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said I wouldn't write any more portrait fics? Well, I was listening to 'How to disappear completely' by Radiohead and this happened, so. Here we are.  
> As a super anxious person, I often get the feeling of needing to leave situations very quickly to 'protect myself' from a panic attack or somebody I think may set off a panic attack, etc. And so I took that idea and bumped it up to the extreme and here we have Héloïse's character arc in this fic! It's very long, so good on you if you got through it! Writing it stressed me out quite a lot I'll be honest but I think it came out alright. Actually, let's be real it's a huge mess. But hey. I couldn't just leave it sitting in a word document.  
> Tell me what you think down below, and thank you so so much for reading :)
> 
> Le grá,  
> Appleface.  
> xxx


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